


Clinging A Shoulder, A Leap Begins

by clotpolesonly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - RENT, Background Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes - Freeform, Drug Addiction, Genderfluid Erica Reyes, Grief/Mourning, Implied One-Sided Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Musician Derek Hale, Past Derek Hale/Paige, Stripper Stiles Stilinski, background Allison Argent/Lydia Martin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-04 18:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14025750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clotpolesonly/pseuds/clotpolesonly
Summary: Derek leaves his guitar on the couch and hauls the heavy door open to come face to face with a mess of spiky brown hair with long fingers buried in it. There’s a long, lean torso half covered by a cut off shirt, a canvas jacket left unfastened over top of it, and even longer legs in sinfully tight skinny jeans with rips that are more haphazard than artful. When the boy raises his head, he’s all dark eyes and pink lips.Derek had been planning to ask a question. He can’t remember what it was supposed to be.Lips quirking up into a grin, the boy pulls a stubby candle from the front pocket of those tight jeans and holds it up.“Got a light?” he asks.----AKA: the Rent AU that one person actually did ask for.





	Clinging A Shoulder, A Leap Begins

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this is more like _half_ a Rent AU in that it only goes halfway through the show's plot, but sue me for wanting a happy ending! (also i balked at writing an HIV subplot when i know nothing about that disease and can't be sure to handle it properly/respectfully.) i hope this is along the lines of what you were hoping for, prompter!!! i certainly had a lot of fun writing it, and your prompt gave me an excuse to listen to the soundtrack on repeat "for research purposes", so thanks for that ;)

—

 

_“Find glory, beyond the cheap colored lights,_

_One song before the sun sets._

_Glory, on another empty life.”_

 

—

 

The voicemail machine lets out an ungodly shriek, followed by Melissa’s much less painful voice reminding Scott that her phone is always on and her spare room is always open. Scott grimaces down at the phone, clearly contemplating picking it up and pretending he’s not freezing his balls off in an open loft without central heating in the middle of December, but he hesitates too long and the line goes dead after his mother’s dejected well wishes.

It’s all familiar enough that Derek doesn’t even stop tuning his guitar. He picks at the strings, walking up an arpeggio and back down like he’s been doing for the last half hour—the last eight months, if he’s truly honest with himself, but he is not in the habit of being so. He’d rather pretend he’s actually making progress on this song, despite all evidence to the contrary. To do otherwise would be to admit that he has no job, no prospects, _and_ no inspiration in the only area of his life that holds any meaning for him.

It’s not an appealing prospect. So he plucks the same series of notes half-heartedly until Scott lets out a gusty sigh behind him.

“You could always go home,” Derek reminds him, trying to sound neutral on the subject. He thinks he does a pretty good job; Boyd always tells him he’s got a poker face that could win a fiddle off the devil.

“And do what there?” Scott asks, just like he always does. “I’ll never make a difference in my podunk hometown, not the way I want to. New York is the place to be!”

“New York is the place we’re gonna freeze to death,” Derek mutters.

Scott doesn’t hear that bit, but Derek hadn’t meant him to. His roommate’s stubbornly sunny disposition has already taken a beating lately and he doesn’t need Derek’s negativity dragging him any lower. Pessimism won’t pay their overdue bills.

Derek goes back to his arpeggios.

Scott wanders into Derek’s view, wrapping a thick scarf around his neck, and blithely says, “Is that Musetta’s Waltz?”

Derek closes his eyes and counts to ten. Then he says, as calmly as possible, “Are you going out somewhere?”

Scott shrugs. “Gonna go find Boyd. He was supposed to be here half an hour ago. He probably got distracted waxing philosophic to that guy who lives under the overpass again.”

That gets half a smile out of Derek because that _has_ happened before and he will never forget the look that had been on that poor, befuddled man’s face as Boyd had eagerly detailed Plato’s allegory of the cave.

“Bring back more fliers for kindling, if you pass any,” Derek says, nodding toward the industrial drum in the middle of the wide room, barely smoking now that all their previous fuel has burned up but still emitting some measure of warmth.

Scott gives him a lazy salute on his way out. The heavy door clangs shut behind him, a blast of colder air hitting Derek full on a second later, and Derek has to rub warmth back into his fingers before he tries to play again. He only gets halfway through his regular pattern before giving up.

Scott’s right; it _does_ sound like Musetta’s Waltz.

He squeezes his eyes shut, leans down to rest his forehead on the curve of the guitar’s body. The warm tone of a cello echoes in the back of his mind and it’s no wonder that this melody is the only one he’s been able to think of. That song was one of Paige’s favorites to play, before she sold her precious cello for some quick cash. It had seemed worth it at the time, to both of them.

Three measured breaths and Derek reminds himself that it wasn’t.

It isn’t.

It never will be.

He swallows back the urge—the insidious _longing_ —and puts his fingers determinedly back on the strings. He can’t think of any new notes to play that don’t reek of painful memories, so he just picks out a scale instead. There’s nothing wrong with going back to the basics anyway.

Unlike everything else, practice never hurts.

 

—

 

_“At least the room stopped spinning, anyway._

_...What?”_

 

—

 

Between the sixth and seventh scale degree of his fourth repetition of the G major scale, the resounding clang of a fist on the metal door to the loft almost gives him a heart attack. Normally Derek would ignore someone at the door, since anyone who knows him would let themselves in and he doesn’t much like talking to strangers, but trying to write clearly isn’t doing him any good right now and he could use the distraction.

He leaves his guitar on the couch and hauls the heavy door open to come face to face with a mess of spiky brown hair with long fingers buried in it. There’s a long, lean torso half covered by a cut off shirt, a canvas jacket left unfastened over top of it, and even longer legs in sinfully tight skinny jeans with rips that are more haphazard than artful. When the boy raises his head, he’s all dark eyes and pink lips.

Derek had been planning to ask a question. He can’t remember what it was supposed to be.

Lips quirking up into a grin, the boy pulls a stubby candle from the front pocket of those tight jeans and holds it up.

“Got a light?” he asks.

His voice is surprisingly low, sort of husky. He’s got little brown moles on his cheeks, across his jaw, down his neck. There’s one just at the corner of his mouth, tauntingly similar to another face entirely. Derek isn’t sure what’s more distracting, that mole or that mouth.

The boy’s got one eyebrow raised expectantly.

Derek clears his throat.

“I know you,” is what comes out, eyes tracing over the boy from head to toe again. The moles aren’t the only thing that’s familiar, but he can’t put his finger on it. One thing he knows for sure, though: “You’re shivering.”

The boy tosses his candle into the air and catches it upside down, then shoulders his way past Derek and into the loft like he owns the place.

“So what?” he asks. “It’s cold in here. And everywhere else. The super turned off my heat.”

He goes to turn around, but something about the motion upsets his balance, leaves him tilting. Derek steadies him automatically. His skin is oddly warm for someone wearing so little in this weather, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He just grins and bats Derek’s supporting hand away like it’s no big deal.

“Forgot lunch,” he claims. “Are you gonna gimme a light or what? It gets dark too early for this ‘no power’ bullshit.” His smile is wide and charming and presses dimples into his cheeks. It falters a bit. “And what are you staring at?”

“Nothing,” Derek says immediately. He shakes his head. “Just…your smile reminded me of…”

The boy rolls his eyes now, flipping his candle back upright. “I always remind people of someone or other. Got one of those faces, I guess. Who is it?”

Derek says it before he can stop himself, before the layers of denial and self-defence can choke him: “Her name was Paige. She died.”

“Sorry ‘bout it,” the boy says, sounding entirely unconcerned. He holds the candle out in front of him, his other hand shoving into his jeans pocket. The motion pulls the waistband that much lower, exposing the vee of his hips another inch. “Light me up?”

Derek fumbles for the lighter in his own pocket. Judging by the smirk on his face, the boy is enjoying how flustered Derek is. Derek grits his teeth against the bizarre nerves, the likes of which he hasn’t felt in god knows how long and only made worse by the nagging feeling that he knows this guy for more than just his resemblance to Paige, and lights the damn candle.

The boy winks at him. Derek almost drops his lighter but saves it at the last second. Scowling against the flush of heat in his face, he gestures sharply to the door and the boy takes the hint easily, sauntering out without further comment.

Derek doesn’t make it halfway back to the couch before the boy is knocking again.

“Did it blow out already?” Derek demands as soon as the door is yet again open, letting more cold air into his already freezing loft. The boy is still shivering.

“No,” he says, thought it obviously has. “I think I dropped my stash.”

He’s inside again before Derek can protest, before he can even process how casually it was mentioned. Moonlight from the wall of windows falls across his face, lining his delicate profile in silver, and Derek is saying, “You look familiar,” like he can’t stop himself.

“Like your dead girlfriend,” the boy says with a huff that might be laughter, peering down at the floor through narrowed eyes. He mutters, “I know I had it a minute ago. It’s the good stuff too. Maybe it’s down here.”

Then he’s on his hands and knees, peering under the couch, and it’s a miracle he can bend like that at all with jeans that tight. He must have left his phone back in his apartment because there is no outline in any of his pockets, nothing to break up the smooth lines of his body as he stretches and arches his back, jacket riding up to show that his smattering of moles goes all the way to his lower back—

“Best ass below 14th street.”

“What?” Derek says blankly, long before the words actually register in his brain and he realizes that he might have to flee the state out of mortification. But the boy is smirking at him again, turned back over his shoulder, and he is doing absolutely nothing to stop Derek from ogling him. In fact, he gives his ass a shake.

“Everybody says so,” he goes on. “What do _you_ think?”

Derek opens his mouth and nothing coherent comes out. In his defense, it’s been a long time since he’s tried to have a normal conversation with anyone besides Scott or Boyd, much less...whatever _this_ is. He’s well within his rights to be a little rusty. And still: “I know I’ve seen you somewhere!”

The boy finally seems to tire of jerking Derek around. He rolls his eyes, goes back to his perusal of the dust bunnies under the couch, and says, “Everybody’s seen this ass somewhere. I exotically dance at the joint two blocks over. And by that, I mean I’m a stripper.”

“Handcuffs!” Derek blurts out, remembrance coming to him in technicolor all at once. “You danced with handcuffs!”

“Pays the bills, baby. Well, it pays for _something,_ at least. And that something is not cheap, so if you could help me look, that would be great.”

Derek does look. There’s a little packet of white near the edge of the open loft door, equal parts tempting and terrifying. Derek scoops it up before the boy can see, but he must hear the motion because in the next second, the boy is on his feet and in Derek’s space, the picture of innocence. He’s got that damn candle again, holding it out in a silent question—offer?—that Derek ignores.

“Forget it,” Derek says. “You don’t need that stuff. You’re way too young for it anyway. What’re you, like sixteen?”

“Nineteen, thank you very much,” the boy snaps, his slightly taunting grin disappearing for the first time all night. “And plenty old enough for a lot of things, I’ll have you know.”

“I thought so too,” Derek tells him. “All of this, with the shivering and the sweating and the blatant withdrawal symptoms? I’ve been there.”

“I’ve got a cold,” the boy says, jaw clenched defensively as if he hadn’t been practically bragging about his drug use a moment ago. It’s fun and glamorous to get high, Derek supposes, but not so much to come back down. God, this kid is the spitting image of him a few years ago and it makes his stomach turn even as his eyes can’t help but be drawn to the cupid’s bow of his lips and the dark smudge of his eyelashes against his cheeks.

“Yeah,” Derek says, gesturing to the crop top and unfastened jacket. “You look real cold.”

He realizes his mistake as the boy’s eyes catch on his hand—the one with the little white packet still clutched in it—and follow the motion. He quickly pulls the hand behind his back and tucks the packet into his back pocket, trying to do it smoothly enough that the kid won’t notice.

“Here,” he says quickly, pulling out the lighter again. “I’ll re-light your candle.”

But the boy is suddenly a lot closer than he was before, sidling into Derek’s space and looking up at him through his lashes in a strangely demure fashion.

“Nah,” he says, “You know what? I think I like us in the dark. It’s cozy.”

Derek swallows hard as the boy reaches out to trail fingers along his chest, dancing them up and over his shoulder to loop one hand around his neck. The warmth and weight of it is strange; he hasn’t been much for being physically close to people in recent months, not even his friends. The last person to touch him like this was Paige, and now there’s this boy with the pink lips and dark eyes and that mole right there where it’s supposed to be, and Derek’s mind is a total blank.

The boy’s other hand finds its way to Derek’s bicep, skating down his arm to his wrist. He hums thoughtfully as he drags Derek’s hand up into the small space between their bodies.

“You’re cold too,” he points out, then quirks an eyebrow. “Big hands, like my dad’s.” He steps in just that little bit closer, trapping their hands so that Derek can feel the scratch of the boy’s  treasure trail against his knuckles. “Hey, do you wanna dance?”

Slow and uncomprehending, Derek asks, “With you?”

The boy bites his lip like he wants to laugh, tilts his head to the side, and says with the utmost gravity, “No. With my dad.”

For some reason, this is the moment that Derek realizes that he doesn’t even know this kid’s name. There’s barely a few inches between them, he can feel the boy’s warm breath on his lips and fingertips on the back of his neck, his heart is beating out of his chest in the strangest and most conflicted way, and all he can say is, “I’m Derek.”

“Derek,” the boy says, low and sultry and almost near enough for their lips to brush. “They call me...”

The hand holding Derek’s lets go and snakes around his waist instead, across his lower back, _lower._ Derek’s breath catches as they make their way to his ass and he can’t decide if he should put a stop to this or if he should grab, should hold, should take. He can’t think of anything at all beyond the chocolate brown of those eyes and the warmth of another body this close to him after so long without.

And then it’s gone.

Pretty pink lips say, “Stiles,” and those long fingers shake a little white packet in his face. Derek stares at it, stunned and confused.

“Thanks for the light,” Stiles says with another wink and a grin. The door clangs shut behind him while Derek is still blinking himself out of his stupor. When his thoughts catch up to him, he checks his back pocket and curses fluently at finding it empty.

Stiles had taken his fucking lighter too.

 

—

 

_“You can’t quietly wipe out an entire tent city_

_and then watch It’s A Wonderful Life on TV.”_

 

—

 

Boyd had not been philosophizing with bums; he’d been mugged and dumped in an alleyway. As such, Scott did not find him, but someone else did. Over an hour after Derek had been left alone and thoroughly unsettled by whatever the fuck had gone on with that Stiles guy, Boyd had come staggering into the loft, far too cheerful for a man covered in bruises, with a blonde bombshell at his side who introduced themself as “Erica and sometimes Eric but Erica right now.”

A disgruntled Scott had trooped in behind them, but his bad mood hadn’t lasted long in the face of the wads of cash and bottles of alcohol Boyd and his new friend Erica had brought with them. It was the closest they were going to get to a Christmas dinner, considering their collective lack of actual income, and it had done a decent job of putting the evening’s events out of Derek’s head for the rest of the night. He would probably never see that kid again anyway.

Now Derek stumbles down the street with Eric’s arm thrown over his shoulders because apparently they’re besties now and Eric won’t hear a word to the contrary. Scott looks like he’s trying not to laugh. Boyd doesn’t bother restraining himself. Derek might’ve snapped at them at any other time, but he can’t bring himself to shut them down after the meeting they had just attended.

“Life support is a group to help you deal with life,” Eric had said. “And you don’t have to be sick to attend.”

Derek hadn’t spoken up in the group like Eric had. He had sat on the edge of the crowd and kept his head down, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, watching Scott make slow laps of the circle with his camera in hand and a look of earnest concentration on his face.

Even without participating, Derek is still exhausted, and all of them are a little punch drunk on the relief of getting out of there.

The strangely good mood comes to an abrupt halt as they round the corner in front of their building. Peter is leaned up against the brick facade out front, feet crossed and coat collar popped against the cold breeze. He raises a hand in greeting when he sees that he’s got their attention and Derek shrugs off Eric’s arm with a leaden feeling in his stomach.

“The hell is he doing here?” Scott asks sourly, and Derek can only shake his head and lead the way to find out.

“What’re you doing here, Peter?” he echoes. “Don’t you have someone else to be selling out right now?”

“Oh, Derek,” Peter sighs, so disappointed. “Is that really the way to greet your favorite uncle?”

“Only uncle,” Derek reminds him. “And sleazebag of a former ‘manager,’ if you could ever be called that considering you dumped me to go corporate at the first opportunity and swindled Scott out of his savings on the way out the door.”

“So I’m assuming we don’t like this guy,” Eric stage whispers to Boyd, who wraps an arm around his waist and responds with: “He bought up the lot next door and is planning to evict all the homeless who live there. On Christmas. I think it’s safe to say that no one likes him.”

“I’m bringing new businesses into the area and stimulating the economy,” Peter corrects him smoothly. “It can only be a good thing in the long run.”

“So good that over a hundred people are gathering to protest it,” Scott says with a hint of uncharacteristically biting sarcasm.

Peter shoots him a sharp look before returning his steady gaze to Derek. “Yes, about that.”

“Oh, here we go,” Boyd mutters.

“Why are you _here_?” Derek asks again through gritted teeth.

Peter sighs once more and pushes himself off the wall to face them fully. “The rent,” he says. “You’re overdue.”

Scott actually laughs. “You’re wasting your time if money is what you’re looking for,” he says. “You know, considering you already have all of mine.”

“Now, Scott, is it really my fault if you’re naive enough to invest in uncertain business ventures?” Peter asks, and before anyone can respond he goes on with: “And besides, I’m not here to collect so much as I am to offer something.”

“Do tell,” Eric chimes in. “I can’t wait to hear this.”

Peter ignores him, again focused only on his nephew. “There’s a way you won’t have to pay anything at all,” he says in that easy, enticing way of his, like the snake-oil salesman he almost certainly was in a past life, “not just this month but any month. I could forgo your rent and on paper guarantee, you can stay here for free indefinitely.” His smirk finally breaks through on his face. “ _If_ you do me one small favor, of course.”

“Of course,” Derek huffs. “What’s that? And make it quick, will you? It’s cold out here and I don’t want to associate with you for any longer than I have to.”

Peter ignores the jab in favor of saying, “Convince that Argent girl to cancel her protest.”

It’s Derek who laughs this time, if only at the idea that anyone could convince Allison to do _anything._ She is the most headstrong person he has ever met, and also one of the most principled. He’s surprised she hasn’t committed herself to a hunger strike by now for the sake of the cause, but she’s deemed a rally and interactive performance art piece to be a more effective gambit at this juncture in her ongoing protest against the establishment.

“You’d have better luck just calling the cops,” he says.

Peter rolls his eyes. “If I wanted to make the six o’clock news, I would,” he drawls. “But I’d much rather handle this quietly. You know how much I hate making a fuss.”

“You can’t expect to decimate an entire tent city and not make a fuss,” Eric snaps, apparently having lost his amusement at the situation.

Again, Peter ignores him. He sidles closer to Derek, head tilted and one of those infuriatingly condescending half-grins on his face, that look that says he knows best and it’s only a matter of time before his silly little nephew sees it too. Derek’s always hated that look and that Peter still feels confident in employing it. He especially hates how many times he’s fallen for it.

“Think about it, Derek,” his uncle wheedles. “All those pesky debts: _poof._ A dedicated space for you to write in the new studio I’m building. A way to record professionally, like you’ve always wanted. I could make that happen for you.”

As an offer, it’s hellishly tempting. Derek’s hands clench into fists in his jacket pockets, buried too deep for Peter to see, as his mind trips over the possibilities of having a functioning heater again. It might almost be worth risking another deal with Peter if it meant that—

“All we’d have to do is give up our integrity,” Scott cuts in. “Sell out, like you did, and sacrifice the hundreds of people who live on that block to do it.”

The look Peter sends Scott this time is downright _cutting,_ a muscle ticking in his jaw as he strains to keep up his pleasant facade. But it is a facade, an act put on to lull his gullible nephew into another fucking trap so he can screw him over all over again. Derek should know better by now than to trust anything from him.

He steps back, out of Peter’s reach, with a hard shake of his head.

“Shut the rally down yourself if you have to,” he says, voice hard. “But we’re not doing your dirty work for you. You can keep your offer.”

“You have a good night, sir,” Boyd says with the utmost cordiality, every bit of it false. He leads the way to the building’s entrance with Eric tucked close against his side and Scott on his heel.

Derek waits for them to pass, unwilling to take his eyes off his uncle just in case the man melts into some sort of shadow creature; as a child, Derek had been convinced that Peter was actually a vampire and could turn into a bat and he’s not sure that suspicion will ever go away entirely.

Peter just looks steadily back at him for several long, strained seconds. Then his gaze darts over Derek’s shoulder as a peal of laughter echoes around them. Against his better judgment, Derek turns to look.

The kid from his apartment last night— _Stiles_ —is walking backwards down the street in their direction, waving to a figure retreating in the opposite direction. He’s got those same tight jeans on and one of those loose tank tops that gapes open on the sides, giving flashes of nipple every time he moves. He’s pulling on his heavy canvas jacket as he turns to face forward, but he pauses when he sees Derek watching him.

He smiles and nods.

Derek doesn’t manage to smile back, not with the sudden memory of dark eyes and body heat and fingertips walking down his back. He doesn’t break eye contact though, not until Stiles disappears through the front door with a lazy wave. He turns back to find Peter watching him with narrowed eyes that immediately flick back to the spot Stiles had just vacated.

“Charming boy, that one,” Peter says, and every alarm in Derek’s head goes off at once.

“Hands off,” he growls.

“Have you seen his act?” Peter goes on blithely. “It’s delightful.”

Derek’s teeth squeak against each other he’s clenching his jaw so hard. “I mean it, Peter.”

Peter holds up his hands in placation as if to say “here they are, _off_ just like you said”, already stepping back toward his shiny car illegally parked on the curb. The smirk never leaves his face even as he pops the lock and opens the driver’s side door.

Right before he slides in, he shrugs and says with an air of unconvincing innocence: “I just wonder if _he_ could benefit from an offer like that.”

The door slams before Derek can respond and he’s left alone on the curb with a chill that has nothing to do with the December weather.

 

—

 

_“The heart may freeze, or it can burn._

_The pain will ease if I can learn,_

_There is no future, there is no past._

_I live this moment as my last.”_

 

—

 

The protest is still on, in theory. In reality, it’s dead in the water unless Allison’s girlfriend Lydia can get the equipment functioning properly. Sadly Lydia is an attorney, not a sound technician, and that’s why the phone screeches at them well into the next evening with Allison’s phone number on the caller ID.

Scott doesn’t hesitate to pick it up because some things never change.

Derek only hears half of the conversation, but the gaps are pretty easy to fill in: the fate of the city rests on this performance; Lydia is wonderful but too stubborn to admit she doesn’t know what she’s doing here and is probably destroying something as they speak; Scott was always so good with this stuff and would he pretty please help her out and she’d owe him big time.

Derek waves Scott off with the most sincere “good luck” that has ever crossed his lips—going head to head with Lydia is daunting for anyone, but doing so as her girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend that said girlfriend called in to save the day from Lydia's apparent incompetence in this field is a whole new level of danger—and Scott disappears out the door with the air of a man heading for the gallows and determined to die with honor.

Boyd is off with Eric for the night, having promised to sit with him on his regular corner while he works his makeshift drum for the passing crowds and collects a truly ridiculous amount of tips for a street performer, and with Scott gone too Derek has nothing to do but sigh and pull out his guitar once more. He doesn’t have high hopes of actually making progress on his song, not with his head so full, but the simple act of playing can usually help him untangle things if he lets it.

So he settles on the couch and places his fingers on the strings. He chooses an old cover, not an original song, and falls into the familiar motions and rhythms. The one thing their shitty loft has going for it is its acoustics and the sound rings and echoes around him, bouncing back at him from a dozen angles until it’s all he can hear. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about the stack of notices and red-stamped bills piled up on the table behind him, about Musetta’s Waltz and the way Paige shook toward the end, about Peter’s smirk and narrowed eyes, about white powder and roaring ecstasy and brown eyes that glowed gold in the light, about—

Three measured breaths.

Not worth it.

He switches songs. Something faster, more complicated. Something that stretches his rusty abilities and takes a little more concentration. He finds himself smiling. It feels strange on his face.

It falls away when he hears singing, distant and off-key but growing closer. There’s a slur to the words that makes them unintelligible, but that’s hardly what matters. What matters is that someone is on the fire escape and getting closer. By the time Derek has deposited his guitar on the coffee table and turned to look, there’s a figure outlined through the frost-covered glass and the pane is sliding up with a creak.

Stiles stumbles through into the loft, tripping and nearly falling. He just laughs. His smile is bright and white in the dimness of the streetlights from outside. His jacket is hanging off one shoulder but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Derek!” he says, sounding delighted, like he’d stumbled upon him at the grocery store and not crawled in through his window. “Hey, big guy, I was just thinking about you!”

Derek rounds the couch toward him and says, “What’re you doing here?”

Stiles meets him halfway across the small open space and immediately reaches for him. One hand slides around to the back of his neck. The other lands on his chest, lingers for a second, then slides up to produce a little packet of white powder.

Derek goes cold, but Stiles smiles. Up close, it’s obvious that his pupils are contracted, barely pinpricks in a sea of fevered brown, and there’s sweat along his brow.

“Just thought you might wanna have some fun with me,” Stiles says, licks his lips. “Got a hell of a tip tonight, wanna make the most of it.”

He kisses Derek. It’s hot and wet and lush and everything he could want out of a kiss, and he sort of wants to throw up. He imagines he can almost _taste_ the buzz on Stiles’ lips and he’s shoving Stiles away before he knows it. Stiles stumbles, but he laughs at the same time, too high to do anything else.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, barging in here like this?” Derek spits, pausing to drag the back of his hand across his mouth. “Where do you get off?”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, chuckling preemptively, and tries to slide into Derek’s space again. “Well, I was kinda hoping right here,” he says, low and breathless. “But I wouldn’t object to a bed, if you’ve got one. Or the couch. Or, hey, the wall or whatever! I’m not picky.”

Stiles pushes in even closer and gets his lips on Derek’s neck. The suction sends a jolt all the way through him, the kind of electric burst of pleasure that makes him shiver from head to toe, but that doesn’t matter when Stiles is glassy-eyed and giggling and reeking of a brand of cologne he could never afford. He doesn’t know what makes him angrier; there are a lot of options on the table.

Derek grips Stiles by the upper arms and shoves him back until he hits a window, keeps him pinned there even as Stiles whimpers in protest.

“Why do you smell like my uncle?” Derek growls.

It takes Stiles a few slow seconds to comprehend the question.

“Who, that guy you were with outside?” he asks. “Peter?” He laughs again. “Pretentious son of a bitch, ain’t he? Tips well, though. He bankrolled this little celebration.”

Stiles sniffs and holds up the packet again, triumphant. It’s all Derek can do not to snatch it out of his hand and throw it back out the window. Instead he lets out a weak laugh of his own, disgust and pity rolled up into a sharp release of breath, and he pulls Stiles forward to give him a shove toward the door.

“Get the hell out,” Derek says. “And take that shit with you. Whatever you’re looking for, you’re not gonna get it here.”

Stiles frowns at him, looking so innocently confused. “I’m just looking for you, big guy,” he says. “Don’t you want me? You sure seemed like you did. And I see how you look at this—” He holds up the packet, flicks it. “—and you want it too. Come on, baby, don’t you think we can have fun, you and me? We’d be so good together.”

“There is no _we,_ Stiles.”

Derek shoves Stiles again, sending him stumbling, and doesn’t stop advancing on him so that Stiles has no choice but to back up or be run over. His giddiness is finally fading, leaving behind a twitchy sort of desperation, a trapped look that Derek can’t bring himself to feel bad about. His chest is burning with everything he doesn’t want to remember—with a montage of Paige and needles and brown eyes gone empty and promises of forever that didn’t mean shit in the end—and he can barely hold back the viciousness that bites at his insides.

“There’s no _us,_ ” he bites out as he presses Stiles into the door. “There’s only you and your shit. I don’t want any part of it.”

“Liar,” Stiles snaps back. “You want me as much as I want you, don’t lie about that.”

“You want me?” Derek asks, leaning in until their chests brush and Stiles’ breath catches in his throat. “You really want me, Stiles? Then come back tomorrow. _Sober._ See where that gets you.”

Derek shoves open the door and doesn’t wait to see if Stiles falls when the solid surface at his back disappears. He turns his back and takes a few breaths, as steady as he can make them. It doesn’t do much good against the persistent churning in his stomach, but he doesn’t have time to dig up other grounding exercises.

“There’s no such thing, Derek.”

Stiles voice is harsh, echoing just like the guitar had earlier but so much louder. Derek doesn’t turn around. He clenches his fists until his knuckle ache and breathes some more, hoping that maybe Stiles will just give up and leave, but Stiles doesn’t seem to have that in him.

“You say to come back tomorrow,” he says. “Tomorrow doesn’t _exist._ Do you get that? It’s not _real,_ Derek, it’s never real and it’s never gonna be. The only thing that’s real is _now._ You gotta — you just gotta live in the now, get it? You live in the now or you don’t live at all.”

Derek lifts his gaze to the ceiling, fighting down a disbelieving laugh. “After a hit or two, everybody’s a fucking philosopher.”

He turns to look the kid in the eye and Stiles stares back, red-faced and defiant despite the shivers that are already starting to race up his spine.

“You think you’re so wise and enlightened,” Derek sneers. “If you really are, then why do you need smack, huh?”

“We gotta _let go,_ ” Stiles says, surging forward, so earnest in his defense. “Let go of everything holding us back or we’ll never know what’s right, you know? We’ve all got so much shit in our heads, there’s just no way, right? You don’t really know yourself until you’re flying, man. You know that, don’t you? You gotta know that.”

Derek had thought he’d known that. A long time ago, in a previous life where he and Paige had drowned themselves in the kind of euphoria that had sucked them dry and convinced them they could rule the world. And he’d been wrong. They had been so wrong, just like Stiles is wrong, and Derek can’t do this. He can’t get dragged back into this, no matter how entrancing Stiles is or how much Derek does want him. He’s done a lot of flying and he knows himself well enough by now to understand that much.

He doesn’t answer any of Stiles’ fevered questions. He just takes Stiles by the arm and drags him back to the still open window he had first clambered through. He manhandles the protesting boy onto the fire escape and follows him out, trying his damnedest to ignore his pleading looks.

“Come on, Derek,” he’s saying. “Why are you doing this? Why, huh? I like you, Derek, and you like me, so why shouldn’t we go for it?”

“Come back tomorrow,” Derek repeats, pressing Stiles onto the stairs and blocking the way back up. He doesn’t know if he actually wants Stiles to do that or not, but he says it anyway.

“There is no tomorrow!” Stiles cries, fed up. “Seize the fucking day, baby, ‘cause it’s the only one we’ve got. There’s only the here and now! No day but today!”

“Goodnight, Stiles,” Derek says. He climbs back through the window before Stiles can say anything else or make any more impassioned pleas. The window doesn’t have a latch, so he leans his full weight on it just in case Stiles tries to come back in, but that doesn’t happen. There’s the clang of Stiles’ kicking the railing and a string of fluent curse words, and then the noise of him making his way ungracefully down the stairs to whatever floor he lives on.

Derek leans his forehead against the cold glass, his breath leaving foggy patterns on its surface, and listens until the sound stops.

 

—

 

_“Only thing to do is jump over the moon.”_

 

—

 

Stiles doesn’t come back the next day. Derek doesn’t see him on the fire escape or pass him on the stairs or glimpse him on the street outside. Part of him is disappointed by the radio silence. For all that he’s obviously a mess, Stiles is still intriguing, engaging, _exciting_ in the most infuriating way. He’s the first person in a long time to make Derek feel awake, like he’s not just skating through life with blinders on. Derek’s just not sure if that’s a good thing.

Another part of him is grateful for the distance. Maybe now he can get his head on straight, stop feeling like he’s losing his mind. Things are simpler without all the complications, and Stiles is one giant complication all on his own.

Yet another part of him is admittedly a little worried. He can’t stop himself from wondering if Stiles got home okay at all, or if he staggered off to OD in an alley somewhere and that’s why he hasn’t come back to bother Derek again. He assures himself that he would’ve heard if someone from their building had dropped dead. Everyone had known about Paige within hours, after all.

And then there’s Peter to consider, and the fact that Peter had gone to Stiles’ show, gotten up close and personal enough to rub his cologne all over Stiles, and dropped a load of cash on him knowing damn well what it would be spent on and just how much everything about the situation would bother his nephew.

But there’s nothing Derek can do about that. Confronting Peter about it would be to admit how much it irked him, which would only give Peter exactly what he wanted and encourage him to take things even further, and confronting Stiles about it would probably backfire in a dozen different ways if only because Stiles is still such an unknown quantity.

So Derek tries to put all thoughts of Stiles out of his head. He reworks some of his older sets, starts and discards four different drafts for his new song, tags along with Scott as he films things for his latest documentary, listens to Boyd’s stories and complaints about his students, and lets Erica distract him with tales from her very colorful past. It works about as well as it ever has.

He only has a few days to wallow anyway.

The protest is scheduled to take place on Saturday night and his presence is demanded along with everyone else’s. He doesn’t bother reminding Allison that he wouldn’t have missed it anyway; her performances, while a little strange, are always at the very least entertaining, and this one promises to be doubly satisfying considering it’s specifically geared to stick it to his uncle.

The Eleventh Street Lot is already filling up by the time Derek gets there, dozens of shabby but warmly dressed people clumping together in front of the stage Allison has erected. The stage itself is a little ramshackle but sturdy enough to support the heaps of equipment stacked up around the edges, including what look like a number of old televisions and even more speakers. Derek makes sure to position himself anywhere _but_ directly in front of said speakers. He’s a musician, after all, and maintaining his ability to hear is sort of important in that regard.

Scott, he sees, is around the back of the stage, bent over a table full of switches alongside the mane of bright red hair that is Lydia. They look to be bickering—there’s a lot of eye-rolling and hand-waving going on—but only lightly so everything must be going as smoothly as can be expected.

Around the front of the stage, Boyd has Erica up on his shoulders. She’s got some sort of picket sign held up, but Derek can’t see what’s written on it from this angle. He’s willing to bet it’s both relevant and an innuendo, because that’s just the kind of person she is.

He recognizes a few other faces in the crowd, people he’s seen around town, friends of friends, some folks from the support group Erica had taken them to. A few dealers he used to be on much closer terms with. He looks away from them very deliberately and his eyes alight upon just the face he’s been struggling not to look for.

Stiles is laughing—he always seems to be laughing—with a few girls Derek thinks might also work at his club. For once, he’s actually dressed for the weather: canvas jacket zipped up, jeans mostly intact, scarf wrapped securely around his neck. As Derek watches, one of his friends tries to stuff a knitted beanie onto Stiles’ head and he fends them off with exaggerated disgust. It leaves his hair a wild mess and his cheeks pink with the exertion.

Derek must have been staring longer and more obviously than he thought, because another of the friends catches sight of him. She nudges Stiles in the ribs and points in Derek’s direction. Before he can duck behind someone else, Stiles is looking at him too, mouth open in surprise.

Derek isn’t sure if he was expecting for Stiles to be angry at him for throwing him out, or bitter for rejecting him, or too embarrassed to even make eye contact, or _what._ But he wasn’t expecting for Stiles to excuse himself from his conversation and make a beeline right for him. That’s what happens, though, and Derek is rooted to the spot as Stiles elbows his way through the crowd to stand in front of him.

“Derek,” he says, breathless in an entirely different way than he had been that night. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Derek says back for want of anything else.

Stiles licks his lips, shifts on his feet. His hands are buried in his jacket pockets and his hair is still a mess. His eyes are warm and brown and clear.

“So hey, I, uh…” he starts, glance darting around uncomfortably. “I kinda wanted to apologize. For, you know, pretty much breaking into your loft and throwing myself at you. That was both undignified and uncalled for. You were right to kick me out.”

“It wasn’t you at your best,” Derek allows, and Stiles huffs out a laugh.

“My best,” he says. “Hell if I know what my best is, but yeah, that definitely wasn’t it.” He faces Derek again, dark eyes tracing him up and down. He tilts his head to the side. “Any chance I could try to show you it sometime?”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Your best?”

“Well.” Stiles shrugs, unconvincingly nonchalant. “You did say to come back sometime. Sober.”

A reluctant grin tugs at the corner of Derek’s mouth. “So I did.”

Stiles’ smile is every bit as charming now as it was when Derek first saw it and Derek ducks his head. Stiles laughs softly and shifts closer, turning so he can brush their shoulders together. Derek doesn’t move away.

“So,” Stiles says gamely. “I was thinking maybe—”

“My friends might be going out,” Derek blurts out. “After the rally. You know, for dinner or something.”

“Why, Derek,” Stiles says, sly and teasing. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

Derek’s mouth falls open but no words come out. He isn’t sure if he wants to put that fine of a point on it, but he also doesn’t want to say _no,_ not when Stiles looks so pleased and warm that it makes the cold all around them disappear.

Luckily, Derek is saved from having to answer at all. Well, maybe not luckily, considering the interruption is an awful shriek of feedback that makes everyone in the lot cover their ears. It does a very good job of bringing everyone’s attention to the stage, though, where Allison stands front and center in tight leather pants and a ripped up tank top. Her belt has a cowbell hung from it.

This is going to be interesting.

Stiles stays by his side as the performance begins, occasionally swaying close enough to press their shoulders together more firmly. He’s a line of heat against him and Derek finds it a little difficult to keep his focus on Allison and her—admittedly very strange—narrative about some sort of cow in the metaphorical cyberland that Peter is trying to create. He’s actually kind of glad for the distraction when Allison starts, of all things, _mooing._

Then she has to go and invite the crowd to moo with her as some odd form of protest. Or maybe it’s meant as a bonding experience, Derek doesn’t really know; he’s never connected much to performance art and how abstract it can get. This is probably relevant to the issue at hand _somehow._

Unfortunately, over a hundred people mooing loudly in unison is apparently threatening in the eyes of the local law enforcement. For all that Peter had claimed he didn’t want to call the cops, he obviously had and has put them on standby around the lot, because they’re here now and out in force. The crowd’s too dense for Derek to have a good view, but he catches glimpses of the uniforms moving through the crowds, hears shouts of protest and then shouts of pain.

Stiles catches onto the danger faster than Derek does. One second he’s craning to see over the heads behind them, one hand braced on Derek’s shoulder to give him a boost. The next he’s cursing and grabbing Derek by the hand to pull him in the opposite direction. Derek doesn’t put up a fight. Someone somewhere must’ve thrown a punch because in under a minute the crowd is starting to heave and churn like the ocean in a storm, more shouts ringing out, people shoving others out of their way as they try to run from the growing frenzy.

Above it all, Allison’s voice is blaring out through the speakers, yelling at the cops for crashing a peaceful and lawful gathering, then begging for people to settle down, but everyone is well past the point of listening. Derek and Stiles press themselves back against the brick wall at the far edge of the lot, around the side of the stage and as far away from the mob as they can get, and it’s only a moment before Scott and Lydia join them there, wide-eyed and panting as they watch the chaos.

“Where’s Boyd and Erica?” Scott asks, panic in his voice. “Have you seen them?”

Last he had seen, Erica had been on Boyd’s shoulders, set well above the rest. Scanning the crowd now, Derek doesn’t see her. He’s only known her for a week or two, so he’s honestly surprised by just how afraid he is that she might be hurt. But right as he opens his mouth to tell Scott that, no, he hasn’t seen them, he catches sight of a flash of blonde hair at the stage’s edge.

Instead of fighting their way through to the edges of the lot, Erica and Boyd are climbing right onto the stage. Thankfully, none of the frenzied people below seem to notice, so no one follows them. The two of them take a horrified-looking Allison, still yelling futilely into her microphone, by the arms and hurriedly drag her away. Lydia leads the way to the stairs at the back of the stage as fast as her heels can carry her and the rest of them fall in behind her, even Stiles.

Everyone but Scott. Derek doesn’t realize that Scott is no longer by his side until Boyd asks, in much the same tone of panic, where he is and if he’s okay. A glance back shows Scott with his trusty camera in his hand, suddenly perched on top of one of the tallest stacks of speakers. How he got up there, Derek has no idea, but he’s got to have a fantastic view of the pandemonium.

It’s winding down a bit. The cops have several people pinned to the ground or up against squad cars, and most of the rest of the protesters have fled and disappeared into the night. Derek has a suspicion that the only reason they haven’t been arrested themselves is because the cops can’t actually see them where they’ve taken refuge. The lot is a mess, even the ground torn up from all the pounding feet, looking every bit like a riot has taken place. Derek’s gotta admit, it’s a good visual, very cinematic.

Before he’s even made it back to the ground from his vantage point, Scott has his cell phone in hand and a triumphant grin on his face.

“What the hell is that look for, McCall?” Erica demands as he comes jogging back to them. “The protest got busted! I hardly call that a success.”

“Oh really?” Scott asks, holding up his phone and giving it a shake. “Because I’m pretty sure the only truly successful protest is the one that makes the eleven o’clock news.”

Allison lets out a gasp, hands flying to her mouth. “Oh my god,” she breathes. “Scott, are you serious right now?”

“I already sent my footage to the station and got confirmation that it will be airing,” Scott announces. “Thank god for digital cameras with wifi uplink. Congratulations, Allison! Your protest is now officially a headlining story.”

Allison squeals and throws her arms around Scott, thanking him over and over again. Stiles leads the rest of them in a cheer and Derek joins in, feeling a little giddy from the fading adrenaline rush and the way Stiles wraps an arm around his shoulders.

Then a whoop of sirens rings out and flashlights start bobbing their way. Erica is the first to take off running in the opposite direction, leading the way out onto the far street and down the sidewalk at full tilt.

Stiles takes Derek by the hand again and Derek lets himself be towed along, the both of them laughing the whole way.

 

—

 

_“Trusting desire, starting to learn._

_Walking through fire without a burn.”_

 

—

 

The restaurant almost doesn’t let them in. Honestly, Derek thinks that’s pretty fair considering how often they come in to loiter and sip the cheapest coffee and still skip out in the bill. Erica saves the day though, just like she did for Christmas dinner, by offering to cover the whole group’s tab like the wannabe sugar daddy she is at heart.

“We’re celebrating,” she says to the host with a wink. “You can’t celebrate without the good booze. Hey, let’s put these tables together!”

They do exactly that, over the host’s vehement protests and the disapproving mutters of the restaurant’s other patrons, though the disapproval probably stems as much from who they are as what they’re doing.

It’s a bit of an eclectic crowd. Allison’s skin-tight leather pants draw an actual gasp from a nearby elderly couple, to which Lydia responds by pulling her girlfriend close and groping her thoroughly because she’s nothing if not provocative and possessive in equal measure. Scott’s filming everything with glee, going so far as to stand on his chair to get a good panoramic shot, and he nearly knocks over a half dozen water glasses when Boyd tries to pull him back down to earth. Erica’s clothes are so brightly colored they almost hurt to look at, and somewhere in between the lot and the restaurant several new friends have joined the party without Derek noticing.

As a whole, they’re raucous and unruly and completely without shame, riding the wave of a near-riot and successful escape from the cops.

Stiles fits right in.

In no time at all, he’s got Scott’s arm around his shoulders, watching some playback on the little screen and remarking on something with an enthusiasm that has Scott beaming. He and Erica moo melodramatically at Allison until she snorts coke out of her nose from laughing too hard. He fails spectacularly at a game of guessing ancient philosophers from their quotes, but Boyd chuckles and claps him on the back hard enough to nearly send him face first into the table anyway.

He’s vibrant and funny and sharp-witted enough to keep up with even Lydia, and though he’s only met some of these people tonight it feels like he’s been with them forever. He gets passed around the table more than once, bouncing from conversation to conversation with ease, and Derek can’t take his eyes off him. Stiles looks so happy and normal right now, miles away from the scene in Derek’s loft a few days ago. It’s almost like he’s a different person entirely.

If this is Stiles’ best, then Derek likes it. He likes it a lot.

Periodically, Stiles will throw a look Derek’s way, almost like he’s checking to make sure that Derek’s still there. He always smiles and gives a little wave, and Derek smiles back helplessly just in time for someone to draw Stiles’ attention back to them. Derek would be jealous but he’s having a _good time,_ the kind of good time that he hasn’t had in forever. He’s been shut up in his loft for so long that he’d almost forgotten what it feels like to go out and have a night on the town with his friends like this.

So of course that’s when Peter comes strolling in, a pair of executive types in suits at his back. He’s always had a knack for showing up where he’s least wanted at just the right time to make the most dramatic entrance possible and this is no exception. He comes to a stop at the end of their table and looks down his nose at them all. Most of them stare back in silence, a standoff of sheer disdain.

Except for Stiles. Stiles glances over from the made-up drag queen he’s been chatting with, sees the newcomer, and grins easily.

“Hey, Peter!” he says.

Peter smiles back, a wide and toothy smile that makes Derek think of a shark, and says, “Stiles. Always a pleasure.”

The way his voice curls around the word _pleasure_ nearly sends Derek’s stomach into revolt, but Stiles just snorts. The others are less amused. There are a few pointed comments from Scott, a couple of outright threats from Allison before Boyd takes it upon himself to hold her back, and some glib retorts from Peter. Also apparently Erica had managed to entice Peter’s dog into committing suicide recently, which was both tragic and morbidly hilarious in a way that means Derek is probably going to hell.

Derek keeps his mouth shut and his head down. Stiles is quiet too, apparently catching on now to the fact that everyone here hates Peter, but Derek doesn’t miss the way Stiles starts scratching at his forearm. He sniffs too, rubbing at his nose as he watches the back and forth taking place in front of him, and it makes something cold settle in Derek’s chest.

He looks away and breathes.

Finally it takes Lydia and her calculated backhanded comments to ever so gently convince the executives to abandon ship. They leave in a huff and Peter’s quick to follow them out, placations at the ready. The only one he stops to say goodbye to is Stiles. Derek doesn’t look to see if Stiles responds.

It takes a bit for everyone to get back into the swing of things. Boyd raises a toast to the villain defeated—at least temporarily—and then a toast to everyone at the table, each one more ridiculous than the next. Scott joins in, and Allison too, and it seems like the uncomfortable interlude is largely forgotten for everyone but Derek. Nothing kills his mood like his uncle, even under normal circumstances, and with Stiles thrown into the mix and the specter of Peter’s _offer,_ Derek is left staring at his plate of half-eaten food and trying to pretend that he doesn’t feel Stiles’ eyes on him from across the room.

Derek tries to let himself get caught up in the party atmosphere again, but it’s no use. Before too long he’s bumming a cigarette off the nearest person with a pack and making a break for the restaurant’s side exit. It’s only when he goes for his pocket that he remembers Stiles stole his damn lighter. He pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh he feels all the way down to his toes.

The door creaks open behind him.

“Hey.”

And of course Stiles would follow him out. Derek doesn’t know why he didn’t expect this, but he still flounders for far too long before pushing out an answering greeting.

Stiles lets the door fall shut behind him, stepping out into the chill. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, fingers drumming restlessly against his thighs like he just can’t stay still. He wasn’t that fidgety when they got here, but it’s been hours. It was always only a matter of time before these kinds of jitters made an appearance. Derek had been just the same once. So had Paige. Now he rolls his useless cigarette between his fingers and forces his eyes away from the telling motion.

He finds Stiles watching him closely, eyes narrowed and a frown on his face. Stiles licks his lips and shifts on his feet again, either hesitant or frustrated, Derek isn’t sure. Maybe both.

“Is this because I didn’t immediately shun Peter?” Stiles asks suddenly. “He’s your, what, your uncle or something, you said? Obviously you’ve got a problem with him.”

“No, that’s not—” Derek cut himself off. “He’s a terrible person,” he tries again. “Everybody’s got a problem with him.”

“Is that why you’re acting weird?”

“I’m not acting weird.”

“You can barely even look at me right now,” Stiles points out and Derek can’t hide his wince. “And you haven’t actually spoken to me since before the rally. My god, you are the _king_ of mixed signals, do you know that?”

Before he can think better of it—before he can stop himself because it’s a dick move and he knows it—Derek is saying, “You didn’t have to come.”

Stiles throws his hands in the air and cries, “You _invited_ me here! And now what’re you gonna do, just ignore me all night long?”

Derek flushes with something like shame. “You’ve been busy making friends.”

“No,” Stiles says, “I’ve been making nice with _your_ friends. But Derek, you’re the one I’m here for. Not your friends, not Peter, _you._ ”

Derek grits his teeth. He knows it’s true, he does. Stiles has been watching him the whole time, searching for his reactions, seeking his approval. Derek knows that if he had wrested Stiles away from Scott, Stiles would’ve stayed by his side happily the whole night through, but he hadn’t done that. He’d kept his distance and now it feels like there’s a gulf between them, between Derek and the whole world around him, that makes Derek want to shut himself up in his loft and never come out again because it’s safe there. It’s always safer alone.

“Is it because I look like her?”

The question hits Derek in the chest like a punch that knocks the breath out of him, and in that moment he _hates_ Stiles for being that perceptive, for seeing right through him to things he has no right to.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Derek says tightly.

Except that he does. Stiles looks so pale in the watery glow of the nearest streetlight and it makes the moles on his cheeks stand out in sharp relief. Moles and brown eyes and jitters that won’t stop melt into a lead weight in Derek’s gut and it’s all he can do not to just _run._ Run as far away from this as he can because he can’t do it again.

“You can’t just pull this back and forth, hot and cold bullshit, Derek,” Stiles tells him with a sniff and a shake of his head. “I get that you lost her and you’re hurting and it sucks, but it’s not fair to me.”

“Then maybe you should find someone else,” Derek snaps. “If you’re so well-adjusted, go find someone less damaged to throw yourself at.”

“That’s _bullshit,_ ” Stiles reiterates, raising his voice to drown out Derek’s. “What, you think you have a monopoly on mishandled grief? You think you’re the only one with baggage? News flash, Derek! _You’re not._ Everyone’s got baggage, man. It’s all about finding someone whose baggage matches yours.”

“And you think yours does?” Derek asks, a sneer on his face. He knows the roiling feeling in his chest, that vicious sort of anger. He spent a long time ignoring it, shoving it down, trying to drown it in the rush of chemical euphoria. Now he wants to give into it, to push and push until something snaps, until Stiles backs down. Until Stiles gives up on him and finally leaves so that Derek can stop _feeling_ like this.

But Stiles doesn’t rise to the taunt. He doesn’t push back again. He just stares at Derek steadily for a long moment with those dark eyes of his. Then he says, more quietly than anything else so far, “You’re not the only one who’s ever lost someone.”

All the fight goes out of Derek in a rush. Suddenly he wants nothing more than to go home, curl up in his bed with the covers over his head, and sleep until he doesn’t feel so raw. His hand shakes as he brings the cigarette up to his lips on automatic, knowing damn well it won’t do him any good but needing to do _something._

A tiny flame flares into life in the dimness, perfectly poised. The lighter in Stiles’ hand is not the one he stole from Derek.

Derek looks at it pointedly and raises an eyebrow.

Stiles huffs out a weak laugh and lets the flame die.

“Okay, so maybe I never needed a light from you,” he admits. “That first night. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”

“Why’d you steal mine then?” Derek asks around the cigarette still in his mouth. This time he takes the offering as Stiles flicks his lighter again, taking a deep draw.

“That,” Stiles says, “was just for the look on your face.”

Derek rolls his eyes, ignoring Stiles’ smirk. He focuses on the rush as the smoke sinks into his lungs, the curl of it in the cold air as he blows it out through pursed lips. It’s not much, but it goes a little ways toward settling him. He takes another drag.

“Here.”

Stiles is holding out Derek’s lighter up like a peace offering. Derek has to step in close to pluck it from his hand and Stiles doesn’t move to keep space between them. He just looks up at Derek, eyes tracing over his face.

“Look, can we just...skip this part?” he sighs. “All the posturing and the avoidance and the back and forth. I like you, Derek, and I mean, _really_ like you. Can we not cut the bullshit and just take a leap of faith here?”

“Stiles,” Derek starts, but he doesn’t know where to go with it. He doesn’t know where to go with any of this. “I don’t remember how to do this.”

“It’s not exactly in my regular wheelhouse either,” Stiles says. “But I’m willing to take the chance if you are. Who knows?” He shrugs, grins. “Maybe we could be good for each other.”

“Maybe,” Derek says. The cigarette dangles from his fingers, largely forgotten. Wisps of smoke curl into the shrinking space between their bodies as Derek sways forward, helpless against the pull even as some small part of him is still screaming for him to put a stop to this.

“So what do you say, big guy?” Stiles asks, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, almost near enough for their lips to brush together. “Geronimo?”

Derek refuses to echo such a ridiculous sentiment, but he does close the distance between them and it’s every bit as hot and wet and lush as he remembers.

They don’t go back in to rejoin the party, but he’s pretty sure no one misses them.

 

—

 

_“In truths that she learned, or in times that he cried,_

_In bridges he burned, or the way that she died.”_

 

—

 

Derek’s as pleasantly tipsy as the rest of the group on New Year’s Eve.

Okay, so he’s probably the most sober of them all, but after a pub crawl like that he couldn’t blame the rest for being a little unsteady on their feet. Stiles has had the giggles for half an hour and keeps turning to bury his face in Derek’s neck in a poor attempt to hide them, arms squeezing around Derek’s waist. Derek just drags him along, trying to keep up with Allison’s quick pace down the street.

“Get ready for your close up,” Scott says, hurrying ahead so he can turn and walk backwards in front of her, camera rolling.

“No, no, get that thing out of my face,” Allison moans, batting at it halfheartedly.

“But the memories!” Scott says. “All of us together, New Year’s Eve 2018! Don’t you wanna hold onto this?”

“It’s not all of us yet,” Derek reminds him, stoically trying to ignore the way Stiles has latched onto his earlobe and is nibbling in a very distracting manner. It’s honestly surprising that he has the coordination to do that and walk at the same time without causing injury. He gently rescues his earlobe as they come up to the building’s front door. “Erica and Boyd are meeting us upstairs. And do we know if Lydia is coming at all?”

“I don’t know,” Allison says with a pout. “It’s always the same fight: whose work is more important. She always comes around eventually, but she’s being especially stubborn about it this time.” She leads the way up the stairs backwards so that she can appeal to Scott, who nods along encouragingly. “If she really understood that my activism is heavily dependent on timing and taking advantage of opportunities before they disappear and the movement as a whole loses momentum, then she couldn’t possibly justify making such a fuss over scheduling conflicts, I mean, _really,_ it’s like—”

“Dude, is that a padlock?” Stiles cuts in.

As they reach the landing, Derek sees that Stiles is right. The door to his loft is shut up tight with a heavy metal lock. A piece of paper is taped to the door. Scott rips it off, scans it, and looks up at Derek in dismay.

“Eviction notice,” he says.

Derek swears.

The clank of high heels on the stairs precedes Erica’s appearance by a good bit, but her outfit still manages to be a surprise; it looks like she’s wearing a shower curtain turned into a strangely fashionable dress. It’s not exactly out of character for her. Nor is the exuberant greeting of, “Drink up, bitches! The party can officially begin because _Erica has arrived._ ”

“The party has hit a snag,” Stiles sing-songs back at her, “because these two are broke.”

Boyd takes the notice that Scott holds out to him and makes a face. The face intensifies when Erica snatches it to look for herself and lets out a tremendous scoff.

“Oh please,” she says. “What kind of asshole evicts someone on a holiday? Fuck this noise. Gimme that garbage can.”

Looking baffled, Scott obediently passes her the big and thankfully mostly empty metal can from the far corner of the landing. Erica waves them all off and Derek falls back in a hurry, making sure Stiles is out of range too. Stiles tucks himself under Derek’s arm like it’s second nature, like he’s been doing it for longer than just a few days.

Without hesitation, Erica hoists the garbage can high and brings the edge of it down on the padlock. The noise of it—and the shouts of five shocked bystanders—echoes, but she doesn’t seem to care. Four more hits and the padlock snaps and falls away. Smug, she tosses the can away and kicks the door open, striding in with every ounce of swagger she can muster.

“I love them more and more every day,” Stiles says in wonder. Derek snorts and Stiles turned to smile at him. “Don’t worry though, babe,” he adds, leaning up to peck Derek on the cheek. “I still like you most.”

He rushes inside, leaving Derek unaccountably flustered. It’s only been a couple of days since the rally, since the restaurant. Since the two of them had decided to _try_ with each other. And those days have been good. _Great,_ even, full of laughter and late nights and kisses that leave Derek lightheaded. Being with Stiles is every bit as exciting as Derek had expected, and twice as soft.

But it’s still only been a few days. Derek has no excuse for the way his heart rate spikes whenever he catches sight of Stiles, or the way his words disappear for far too long when Stiles kisses him breathless. He has no excuse for feeling like this, especially not when he knows that the reasons for his initial misgivings haven’t disappeared, that Stiles is still a junkie and Derek is still damaged in a variety of ways and Peter is still looming like always. When he knows just how likely it all is to crash and burn.

He still manages to blush like an idiot schoolgirl with a crush when Boyd takes one look at him and laughs outright. Derek scowls his most intimidating scowl, punches his so-called friend in the arm, and stalks into the loft behind the others.

The lights are on. For the first time in weeks, the fucking lights are on, and Scott is waving his arms around, looking heartily offended.

“They turned the power back on,” he tells Derek, as if he hadn’t noticed. “They let us nearly freeze to death in the dark, no problem, and then the second they kick us out, they turn everything back on. How rude is that?”

“Typical,” Allison says. “This has gotta be some sort of unethical. Lydia would know a loophole. Let’s see if she’ll answer her phone this time.”

“You guys got a message,” Stiles announces, pointing to the little red light glowing on the voicemail machine as Allison wanders off with phone in hand. He frowns. “Wait. Do those things still record when the power's not on?”

“If anyone could find a way to make that happen,” Scott mutters, “it’s my mom.”

“The will of Mama McCall supersedes the limitations of traditional electronics, and also the laws of physics,” Boyd intones sagely, and Derek has to nod along with him.

“Oh god, how am I gonna tell her I’m officially homeless?” Scott asks, wringing his hands with the same guilty look he always gets when he screens his mom’s calls to avoid having uncomfortable conversations. “She’ll panic about me sleeping on the streets and dying of hypothermia or something! She’s a nurse, okay, she knows a lot about hypothermia!”

Allison appears to put a hand on his shoulder, her other hand holding up her cell phone. “You’re not gonna be on the streets,” she says. “At least, not yet. Lydia says you’re—”

“Now that you’ve broken in,” Lydia’s voice cuts in, tinny and loud on speakerphone, “you’re squatters. I checked with legal aid and they can’t legally kick you out. You’ve got some wiggle room to get the money together for your overdue rent. I wouldn’t rely on it for too long, if I were you, though.”

“Hey, wiggle room is good,” Stiles says gamely.

“ _Very_ good,” Erica purrs, eyebrows dancing as she presses herself nice and close to her boyfriend.

Stiles throws his head back to laugh and whacks Derek in the stomach with the back of his hand, apparently just to make sure he was paying attention and got the joke. Derek wraps the hand up in his to keep it still, rolling his eyes, and pulls Stiles close enough to kiss the laugh right out of his mouth. Boyd lets out a wolf-whistle and Erica shouts, “Get a room!”

Stiles disengages from Derek’s mouth to say, “A _wiggle_ room?” and Erica cackles hard enough that she almost falls off her heels.

“Why are you two likes this?” Derek, as the only one able to maintain a straight face, feels the need to ask. “You’re not even drunk!”

“I can change that,” Boyd announces. From a pocket of his overcoat, he pulls out a hefty bottle of semi-decent vodka. Allison makes a grab for it, but Stiles gets there first and the two of them collapse on the couch only to have Erica throw herself down across both of their laps. Boyd follows with a tiny bit more dignity and sits himself down on the floor at Allison’s feet, reaching up to steady his datemate so she doesn't go rolling off the couch.

Derek shakes his head at them, wondering how the hell they got here. How _he_ got here, with wonderfully ridiculous people like this in his life. Some things may still be shit—a lot of things, honestly—but Stiles leans his head over the back of the couch to grin at him upside down and Derek can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be in the moment.

He turns to Scott and jerks his thumb at the tangle of limbs their friends have become. “You coming?”

“Yeah,” Scott says, an equally fond look on his face as Allison wins the vodka and knocks some back. “Lemme just check the message first. Save me a shot. If you can.”

“I make you no promises.”

The second Derek is within reach, Stiles is yanking him down onto what little space is left of the couch and insinuating himself in Derek’s lap. He’s a warm, reassuring weight—like Paige used to be, but also _not—_ and his head tucks up perfectly under Derek’s chin. Once settled, he seems pretty content to stay where he is and let the others squabble, only occasionally stirring the pot by kicking one of them when they’re not looking to see who did it, and Derek’s more than happy to just hold onto him. God, it feels good to be this close to someone, and Stiles makes it feel so easy.

“Guys, guys!”

Scott’s shout cuts through the noisy bickering as he races over, flushed and beaming. He collides with the back of the sofa, barely catching himself from going head over heels, and Derek is a little alarmed the change one voicemail could elicit.

“Your mom have good news?” he asks, but Scott shakes his head wildly.

“No, no, no,” he says. “Not my mom. _Alexi Darling._ ”

Allison dumps Erica unceremoniously on the floor so she can twist around and stare at Scott. “The Buzzline chick?”

“She saw my footage of the riot,” Scott says. “She said she’s impressed and she wants to offer me a contract for a feature. Like, an actual paying thing with me getting real money for my films!”

“That’s fantastic,” Derek says as Allison shrieks and yanks Scott into a hug. Erica and Boyd cheer from the floor too, and Stiles swipes the abandoned vodka to raise it up.

“A toast!” he declares. “To starting the new year off right.”

As Derek takes his turn chugging straight from the bottle, with Stiles still cuddled against his side and all his friends around him, he decides that if the rest of the year is anything like this, he might finally be happy.

 

—

 

_“How do you measure a year in the life?_

_How about love?”_

 

_—_


End file.
